Semper Mine (Sons of War #1)(22)

Except that Petr wants me to work with her. I don’t fully understand why, unless he’s hoping I can change her attitude enough that she no longer drives him crazy.

Don’t think that’s possible. I take a few deep breaths and do a couple mental relaxation exercises, like counting to ten and reciting the Marine Corps honor code. By the time I’ve regained my calm, Riley is on his way back.

He passes off his lock pick set. I use it to get in the front door then hand it back.

“Good luck,” he whispers.

“You, too.” I reply and motion to the two preteen boys that are darting out of his barracks and racing around the square.

Riley grimaces and starts towards them.

I close the door and wait a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The whir of the air conditioners keeps any of the noise from outside from disturbing the sleeping kids. Walking quietly through the bunks, I approach the door to the room I share with Katya. The edges are outlined by the light from inside.

One day down. If I can handle back-to-back tours in Iraq, I can survive a week with her.

I open the door and walk in.

Katya drops something and whirls, staring at me. She’s in shorts and a tank top for once, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s not wearing a bra.

Not that I’m looking. She’s got nice breasts, and it doesn’t take a genius to notice.

“Figures,” she snaps. “Couldn’t knock?”

“It’s my room,” I reply calmly. Realizing I’m watching her, I close the door and enter the room fully.

She kneels to pick up the lotion she dropped, and I freeze.

I’ve seen a lot of wounds and scars in my time. I don’t know that I’ve seen anything close to what’s on her shoulder, peeking out of the tank top.

“What the f*ck happened?” I crouch behind her and instinctively touch the knotted scars on the back of her shoulder.

She knocks my hand away. “None of your damn business.” Katya starts to rise. I grip her arm, keeping her in place. My knees drop to either side of her thighs to aid my balance. Too interested in the old wound, for once I don’t notice our bodies touching or how close I am to her.

“This is why you limp,” I guess. I run my fingers down her back, following the feel of the scarring through her shirt. It stretches diagonally from her left shoulder to her right hip.

She’s stiff, tense. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything. What the f*ck did this?”

There’s a brief hesitation then Katya tugs her arm free. She pulls the back of her tank top over her head, exposing the damage.

Speechless, I rest a palm on her back. The scar tissue is as wide as my extended hand, from the tip of my pinkie to the tip of my thump. It covers most of her back. The skin is warm and soft despite how ugly it looks.

“There was a fire in the family ski lodge when I was nine,” she said tersely. “It’s what killed our mother. I got trapped under a super heated steel beam. Cut right through me. Spent six months on my belly in the burn unit.”

“And I thought getting shot was bad.” Knowing this doesn’t make up for her being a bitch. It’s giving me a little more insight into why she’s got this shell around her.

“I’m sure it is.” Her voice has a slightly breathless quality in it, one I’m not expecting to hear. Almost like she’s … affected by my touch.

Which makes no sense. This woman hates me with a passion I’ve never reserved for anything. My gaze travels down her narrow, feminine shoulders to her shape. Trim torso, tucked waist, perfectly rounded hips. She smells more of her own scent and less of other products this evening, a smell I find myself leaning forward to breathe more of.

Shit. No. She’s not remotely interested in me, and I’m not in her. At least, I will continue to tell myself this.

“I can’t believe you noticed.” She sounds upset.

“The scars? This is the worst shit I’ve ever seen.”

Katya pulls her tank back on, pushing my hand off her back. She twists to glare at me, face red. “That is the rudest thing you’ve said yet!”

Civilians. I shift to make room as she turns to confront me, my hand falling automatically to the soft skin of her upper thigh. Our bodies are touching, her face a few inches from mine. I can see the different hues of blue and green in her eyes.

I can also see that her pupils are dilated, a second sign of physical arousal. I’m not sure what to think of that, especially when she’s clearly angry with me once more. I don’t seem like her type, and she’s definitely not mine.

“I meant, I can’t believe you noticed my limp,” she snaps. “I’ve spent years fixing it!”

“I only noticed this morning when you were walking back with Jenna,” I reply. “When people are tired, they aren’t always able to regulate themselves like they do usually.”

She’s upset. I’m not sure if it’s because I noticed her limp and scarring or because I’ve been too blunt with her again.

“If it helps, I’m more detail oriented than most others,” I add. “Is the scarring why you don’t wear bathing suits?”

Her flush deepens. She crosses her arms.

I don’t know how she does this: infuriates me yet makes me sympathetic to her in the same breath. The idea a woman as beautiful as she is can be self-conscious is absurd, yet her blush confirms it. It’s probably why she didn’t want to get in the paddleboats when everyone stripped down to bathing suits this afternoon. I’m once again torn between reaching out to comfort her and getting away, before I say something that I can’t take back.